


Three Little Words

by duchess325



Series: The Baker Street Chronicles [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem Spoilers, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Pre-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper - Freeform, Sherlolly - Freeform, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-08 12:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchess325/pseuds/duchess325
Summary: Molly's had a bad day and Sherlock Holmes is just making it worse.





	1. Molly

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a few little scenes to frame the "I love you" scene within my canon. I also wanted to address the notion that Molly is the type of person who would have gone out and shagged some random bloke and gotten over the whole thing with Sherlock. I'm with Louise Brealey in thinking that is NOT the kind of person that Molly is. Anyway, the words in bold type are from the actual scene in S04E03 written by Mark Gatiss and Steve Moffat.

Three Little Words

              Early in the morning, Molly walked into the mortuary with a file and a clipboard in her hand. She opened the drawer and pulled out the body of a young man that had come in the night before. Two orderlies transferred it to an examination table in the middle of the room. Molly turned on the light above the table and put on her goggles and gloves.

              She looked at the body. Her best guess was that he was in his mid- to late-thirties, but his body was in bad shape, emaciated, ravaged by drugs. She opened the file and glance at it. It confirmed that he was 34-years old and had a long history of drug abuse—opiates and methamphetamines. She sighed heavily and went to work, thinking all the while that one day it could very well be Sherlock’s body on this slab and how much her heart would break if it were.

 

              Afterward, her work weighed heavily on her heart. She had moved on from heartache to anger—she was so angry that Sherlock could so easily throw away all his gifts, searching for a high. She tried to tell herself that the last time had been for John’s sake, to push himself to the edge so that John would pull him back and, thus, save himself as well. But, she had examined him in that ambulance and she knew how far he had gone and she told herself that in this case, the end did not justify the means. That was just him being careless and irresponsible. How could she ever tell him about William and expect him to ever be a father, if he was so careless with his own life?

              She was sitting at her desk to do some paperwork when her mobile rang. It was Mycroft. Her heart sank. Was this the call she had always dreaded? Taking a deep breath she answered the phone.

              “Hello, Mycroft.”

              “Molly, listen to me very carefully. Don’t ask me any questions right now; just do as I say.  Go get William and take him to the address that I am getting ready to text you. This is a safe house and you both need to be there. When you arrive, go to the door and tell the man who answers that you need directions to the nearest tube station. He will answer, ‘Would you prefer I call you a taxi?’ He must give you that precise answer, then you will know it is safe to enter. Stay there until either I, Sherlock, or John come for you personally.”

              “What’s going on? Why are we in danger?” Molly asked urgently.

              “I cannot say anymore right now. Please just do as I say.”

              “I’ll take William, but if Sherlock and John are in some sort of danger, I want to help them.”

              “There is nothing you can do to help them. They are on a case. They are fine. I am just taking some precautions. Please, Molly, go to the safe house,” Mycroft begged her.

              “I’ll take William,” she said with an edge of defiance in her voice.

              Mycroft sighed, “Very well.”

             

              Molly left work immediately and picked up William from preschool. Leaving him at the safe house she put on a brave face and told him that she would be back for him soon. Then she went home and waited—waited for a call, waited for a knock on the door, waited for the world to end. Really, she didn’t know what she was waiting for, only that lately it seemed as if her life was full of sadness and hurt and that Sherlock seemed to be at the heart of it all. It hurt her to think that way, but it also made her angry. Why was she still waiting for him?

              She had just poured herself a cup of tea and was standing by the sink thinking of all these things when her phone rang. She went back to her tea and busied herself with cutting an orange, ignoring the phone because it was Sherlock. She had always allowed herself to be at his beck and call. Perhaps today she wouldn’t. The call went to voicemail. A moment later it rang again. It was Sherlock. That nagging voice at the back of her head made her pick up the phone, _what if it’s about William?_

**“Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent, ’cause I’m not having a good day.”**

**“Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why,” Sherlock answered impatiently.**

**“Oh, God,” she sighed. “Is this one of your stupid games?”**

**“No, it’s not a game. I ... need you to help me.”**

**“Look, I’m not at the lab.” Molly really didn’t want to talk to him right now. Why could he never get the point?**

**“It’s not about that,” he said.**

**“Well, quickly, then.” There was a pause on the other end. Molly was becoming rather exasperated. “Sherlock? What is it? What do you want?”**

**“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words…”**

**Molly was a bit curious now. “What words?”**

**“I love you.”**

**Molly’s heart dropped and tears sprang to her eyes. Why was he doing this to her? She looked down at her phone and considered ending the call. “Leave me alone,” she told him.**

**“Molly, no, _please_ , no, don’t hang up! Do _not_ hang up!” Sherlock shouted frantically.**

**“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?” she asked him, on the verge of breaking down into tears.**

**“Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.” He wasn’t shouting anymore, but there was still an urgency in his voice. “Molly, this is for a case. It’s ... it’s a sort of experiment.”**

**“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock,” Molly answered with an edge of anger.**

**“No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend. We’re friends. But ... please. Just ... say those words for me.”**

**Molly was pained as she told him, “Please don’t do this. Just ... just ... don’t do it.”**

**Sherlock tried to sound chipper as he continued to coax her, “It’s _very_ important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.”**

**“I can’t say that. I can’t ... I can’t say that to you.”**

**“Of _course,_ you can. _Why_ can’t you?” he asked, trying to sound friendly.**

**“You _know_ why,” she replied.**

**“No, I _don’t_ know why,” Sherlock said, puzzled.**

**Molly sniffled as she said, “Of course, you do.”**

**“Please just say it,” he pleaded.**

**“I can’t. Not to you.”**

**“Why?”**

**She couldn’t believe he was making her say it. Her voice broke and it almost came out as a whisper when she said, “Because….because it’s true. Because… it’s… true, Sherlock.”**

**“Well, if it’s true, just say it anyway.”**

**So many emotions were boiling just under the surface now as Molly responded, “You bastard.”**

**“Say it anyway,” he insisted.**

**“ _You_ say it. Go on. You say it first,” she insisted back.**

**“What?” he asked, a bit confused.**

**“Say it,” she said quietly. “Say it like you mean it.”**

**“I—I--,” he stuttered.**

**Molly closed her eyes as the tears came again. Even if he didn’t mean it, all she had ever wanted to hear were those words.**

**“I love you,” he said. And then again, more softly, “I love you.”**

**Molly took the phone down from her ear and looked down at the screen. She contemplated hanging up, after all, she had just made Sherlock Holmes say that he loved her. Anything else would ruin it. But, then she heard his voice call her name, and she had told him that she would say it if he would…**

**“Molly, please,” Sherlock begged.**

**She hesitated. She contemplated. Finally, she took a breath and said, barely above a whisper, “I love you.”**

**The call abruptly ended and Molly put the phone back down on the counter.**

              Of all the things that Sherlock had ever done to her, that was the most heart-wrenching thing. It was worse than humiliating her at the Christmas party; worse than all of the flattery to solicit favors in the lab; worse than asking her to help fake his death; worse than making love to her before disappearing for two years; and worse than nearly killing himself with drugs. Molly just sank to the floor of her kitchen and cried. She cried until she had nothing left in her. She cried until she was empty. Then she cried some more. Someone else, someone without the capacity to love and feel the way she did about Sherlock, might have hung up that phone and gone out and shagged the first bloke that was willing, forgetting all about a man who could break her down to nothing with those three words. But that wasn’t Molly. Molly was a woman full of love for the man whom she had admired for so many years. She was full of love for the man that told her that she mattered, that she was the one person who mattered. She was full of love for the man that had made love to her and that had given her the one gift that no one else ever could—his son.

              She finally picked herself off the floor and told herself that, even if he had been a bastard to make her say it, at least he now knew and had no doubt how she felt about him. She loved him, and she always had. Maybe someday she would know why he made her say it, but for now it was enough that she did.

              For hours Molly sat in the silence of her sitting room waiting to hear from Sherlock or John or Mycroft. She was worried about William, but she was afraid that if she left to go be with him that Sherlock, John, or Mycroft would come to her flat and she would miss them. Therefore, she sat, not only in silence, but in anguish as well.

              In the wee hours of the morning there was a knock on the door that startled Molly, who had dozed off, out of her sleep. She rushed to the door and looked through the peep hole. There was Mycroft on her doorstep holding a sleeping William in his arms. She threw open the door. Mycroft looked haggard and weary.

              “Come in, come in,” Molly told him as she reached for her son. William barely stirred as Mycroft handed him over to his mother’s waiting arms.

              “No, I just wanted to return him to you tonight and let you know that everything is all right. You were never in danger; I was just being cautious. We had a situation….I’ll see you tomorrow and explain everything. I promise you that.”

              Mycroft had a sad look in his eyes in his enervated eyes, a look that begged reprieve from questioning tonight.

              “Okay. I don’t work tomorrow. I could come see you while William is at nursery.”

              “I’ll send a car at nine o’clock, if that is all right with you.”

              “That will be fine. Just one thing, Mycroft, and you don’t have to explain anything right now—I just” she took a breath, “is Sherlock okay?”

              “He’s not okay, but he is safe and unharmed. Goodnight, Ms. Hooper. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 


	2. I Hurt Myself Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock devastated Molly with those "three little words," he has to come to terms with what they mean to him and what Molly means to him. Unfortunately, making amends after all these years proves to be more of a challenge than Sherlock can handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words in bold type are from S04: E03, The Final Problem and are written by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.

**“I love you,” Molly said.**

**Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as he reeled backward from the screen where the countdown clock had stopped at two seconds. He bent over with his head in his hands as John and Mycroft also sighed with relief. In her kitchen, Molly had put down the phone and raised both hands to her mouth. Sherlock straightened up as Mycroft approached him.**

**“Sherlock, however hard that was…”**

**Sherlock looked at the camera, “Eurus, I won. I won.” She didn’t answer. “Come on, play fair! The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her.”**

**There was only silence from Eurus.**

**“I won. I saved Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said.**

**Finally, Eurus reappeared on the screen. “Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You _didn’t_ win. You lost.”**

**Sherlock frowned.**

**“Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself,” Eurus said. Sherlock looked away, but Eurus continued, “All those complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you _every_ time.”**

**Sherlock walked over to the coffin in the center of the room now and dropped his gun. He continued over to the wall, where the lid was propped.**

**“Now, please, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn’t going to be so easy,” Eurus told him. A door slid open and Mycroft turned to look. “In your own time.”**

**The screen turned to running water again. Sherlock picked up the coffin lid as Mycroft and John headed for the open door. Sherlock walked over and placed the lid on the coffin as Mycroft and John watched him. Sherlock rested his hand for a moment on the lid.**

**“Sherlock?” John said.**

**Sherlock started unbuttoning his jacket.**

**“No. No,” he said. He brought his hand up and then smashed it through the top of the coffin with all his strength. He smashed it again and again with both fists before finally picking up the whole thing and slamming it down on the trestles while crying out in rage. He let out a final, anguished scream before backing against the wall.**

              Sherlock slid down, emotionally spent. Did he love her? He had always felt some connection, hadn’t he? For the first years that he knew her, didn’t he avoid conversation with her because he  didn’t know what to say? Didn’t he feel something when she alone could look at him and tell that he was sad? Didn’t he feel something that night they made love, when he knew he might never see her again? Didn’t he feel something for those years that he was separated from her, thinking of her every day? Didn’t he want to reach out to her when he was destroying himself and she was the only one who would step up and say something? And when she saved him again and again? She loved him, who was so hard to love; didn’t he feel something for her as well? Was it love?

              Why had he never told her? Why didn’t he see? Would she ever believe him if he made it through this and told her again?

              **John finally crossed the room, avoiding the splinters of wood scatter on the floor, and stopped in front of Sherlock. “Look, I know this is difficult and I know you’re being tortured, but you have got to keep it together.”**

**Sherlock didn’t look up. “This isn’t torture; this is vivisection. We’re experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats.” He leaned his head back against the wall with a sigh and gazed upward. “Soldiers?”**

**John nodded. “Soldiers.”**

             

              Eurus put Sherlock, Mycroft, and John through hell and back. But in the end, Sherlock realized that all she had ever wanted was love—the love of her family, her brother. And like Sherlock, she didn’t know how to properly express that need, that want. The things that she did were horrible, and there was no excuse for the manipulation, terror, and murder that she had committed, but at least he could understand why. She was lonely. She had gifts that no one else could understand and therefore could not be taught to properly use. She was a little girl and she had been lonely and she didn’t know what to do.

              Sherlock sat alone in his brother’s library, for 221 Baker Street lay in ruins. Greg Lestrade had dropped him off after a long night at Scotland Yard giving statements. The sun was now rising over the horizon as Sherlock sat deep in thought.

              His mind went back to the very first time he ever met Molly Hooper. He had already been a frequent visitor to the mortuary and lab at Bart’s—having an important brother in the high echelons of British government did have its perks from time to time – when he first met Molly. It was her first day at Bart’s and a pathologist named Perkins was showing her around. Sherlock was busy in the lab examining some fibers related to a missing person case. He noticed her right away, mainly because she was at least 10 years younger than anyone else in the pathology department. She wore a jumper with bright stripes and her hair was pulled back into a loose pony tail. She smiled a shy smile when Perkins introduced her.

              _“Afternoon, Sherlock,” Perkins said. “This is Molly Hooper. She is the new specialist registrar. She is not your personal assistant and don’t give her a hard time. Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t work here, he’s just allowed special privileges in the lab and mortuary, for God knows what reasons. Don’t do him any special favors.”_

_Sherlock smirked at Perkins before turning to Molly. He gave her a brief nod. “Ms. Hooper.”_

_“Mr. Holmes,” she replied._

_Perkin’s beeper went off. “Excuse me just a moment, Ms. Hooper. We’ll finish our little tour as soon as I check this call.”_

_When Perkins left them alone, Molly took a slow stroll around the lab. When she finally made it back around to Sherlock she stopped and spoke._

_“Quite an old codger, isn’t he?” she asked with a nervous laugh._

_“Hmm.” Sherlock mumbled as a reply._

_“If you do ever need me, I don’t mind offering myself up…oh, god, that didn’t sound right. I just meant if you need a favor, I could do you a favor…lab related…or whatever. I’ll just stop talking now.”_

_“Yes, that’s probably for the best. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a kidnapper to catch.”_

_“Oh, are you a police officer?”_

_“Hardly. I actually catch criminals. I’m a consulting detective. Good day, Ms. Hooper.”_

              Good lord, even then Sherlock was blowing her off and all she did was try to be friendly and make conversation. He remembered the day very vividly though. He remembered exactly how she looked, and he remembered that he was impressed that someone so young was joining the department. He might have even found her interesting if he had given her a chance all those years ago.

              There were so many times in the intervening years that Molly had tried to get to know Sherlock. He pushed her away each time thinking, erroneously, that attachments were a weakness. It left him feeling lonely, but he felt confident that he was doing the right thing. That is until John Watson came along and showed him what it was like to have a heart, to feel empathy for others. Slowly, but surely, he eyes had been open to what was in front of him all along.

              Now there was so much more that he knew about himself and what had made him the man that he was. He wanted to be bitter and angry at Mycroft, but truth be told, he understood why he did the things he did, even if he didn’t agree with his methods. He had been left devoid of love, just as his sister had. He had shut out his feelings so that he could never be hurt again.

              Sherlock was still sitting in the library when Mycroft came home an hour later. He heard his brother walk to the library door and pause for a moment, perhaps trying to decide if he should speak to his brother, before retreating to his rooms upstairs.

Sherlock was still there at noon when John came to call. John came in without pause and took a chair in front of the fire opposite Sherlock. He sat silently and patiently, waiting to see if Sherlock would speak first. When he didn’t, John spoke.

              “So, how are we?” John asked.

              “She’s never going to forgive me, John,” Sherlock said, his fingers pressed together in a temple at his lips. He gazed into some unknown distance, unblinking.

              “Molly? I think she will. It will take a while, but I think she will.” John paused a moment. “Sherlock, she’s loved you for a long time. While you were gone—things were not easy for her. Since you’ve been back she doesn’t know where she stands. You shared an intimate night together before she helped you fake your suicide and disappearance—I’d say she deserves to know where things stand. Do you love her?”

              “I—I don’t know. I mean, I feel something. I care about her deeply. When I came home, I wanted to make things right between us, but she had moved on with Tom so it complicated things. And then there was the whole Janine thing. That was a disaster.”

              “Sounds like you have a lot to work through, but I think you might be on the right track. It seems obvious that you have some type of feelings for Molly, whether they are romantic or not I don’t know. You need to think about how she makes you feel. You need to think about what she means in your life. If she left tomorrow, how would you feel?

              “The next thing you need to do is apologize to her for last night. I think Mycroft is going to explain to her what happened—tell her about Eurus, but…”

              “Wait, Mycroft is going to tell her about everything? Why? Why would Mycroft do that?”

              John cleared his throat, “Ah, well, after the explosion at our flat, Mycroft was concerned for the safety of those closest to you and he tried to warn her that something might happen. If Mycroft had had his way, Molly wouldn’t have been in her flat yesterday when you called. But, Molly, as it turns out, is more head strong than he gave her credit and refused to go to the safe house where we took Rosie.”

              “Oh, my god. Why didn’t you tell me?”

              “Mycroft didn’t want to worry you. Fat lot of good that did.”

              “I think that Mycroft needs to learn that he doesn’t always know best,” Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh. “But you are right. I do need to apologize; I need to start making amends with Molly or I will never have a chance with her.”

              “So, you think you want a chance with her?”

              “I still don’t know, but if I do, I’ve got to make sure she doesn’t hate me.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment, lost in his feelings. “John,” he finally said, in a quiet and thoughtful voice, “when I was gone, when I was tearing apart Moriarty’s web, I thought of her every day. There was one time, when I was being held in a prison in Pakistan, that I even hallucinated that she was there. You both were. She wanted me to come home to her and you showed me the way.”

              John looked down and swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, that sounds about right,” he finally said with a small smile.

              “What is love, John?”

              “I’m sorry, what?” he answered with a puzzled look.

              “How do I know if what I am feeling is love? I had a connection of sorts with The Woman. She intrigued me and made me feel things that no other woman had in a long time. But, I don’t think about her all the time. I mean, I text her from time-to-time and we flirt, but I have no real desire to act on those flirtations. I haven’t even seen her since she disappeared.

              “With Molly it is different. When she wanted me, I found that I wanted her back and I acted on those wants.”

              “If you asking me my opinion—and this is just an opinion—I’d say you love Molly. Is it romantic love? It certainly sounds as if it could be. So, apologize to her, but don’t expect her to forgive you right away. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but just because you say you’re sorry doesn’t make everything all right. You will have to wait, and while you wait, show her that you are sorry. Do nice things for her without expectations, just to do it. When you see her at Bart’s, speak to her. Send her nice texts that just say, ‘Hi, how are you? Thinking of you.’ Try flowers. Just keep showing her that you mean it when you say you are sorry.”

              Sherlock nodded, but didn’t respond. John was much better at these types of things. He could read people better and understand the emotions behind their reactions. If John said this was the way to make amends with Molly, then he would do whatever it took.

 

_Molly, sorry for the scare that Mycroft gave you. All is well and I hope you are too. SH_

              Sherlock sent the text to Molly shortly after John left. He knew this was going to be a long road to forgiveness and trust, but it was one that he was willing to walk. As he expected, Molly did not text him back.

              Mycroft had left the house mid-morning and was now returning as the clocks struck noon throughout the cavernous halls. He came to the library, where Sherlock still sat, and this time he came in and joined his brother in front of the fireplace.

              “I’ve just met with Molly Hooper. I suppose that John told you that I tried to get her to go to the safe house yesterday. She refused. Today I felt that I owed her an explanation.” Mycroft paused to study his younger brother, who stared steadfastly into the fire. “I told her all about Eurus,” Mycroft continued. “Everything. I told her about Victor Trevor, the house fire, Sherrinford, the three identities that she had recently portrayed, and everything that happened yesterday, including the peril in which we believed Molly to be in.”

              “And what did she have to say?”

              “She was quite shocked, of course. Her mind immediately went to the dark places one would imagine hearing that story for the first time.”

              “But what did she say about the phone call? Did you explain the phone call?”

              “I did.”

              “And?”

              “She understands that we thought her life was in danger, that we believed her flat to be rigged with explosives. She understands that you thought it imperative for her to say those words in order to save her life.” Mycroft paused again. “She did not, however, understand your ‘technique.’ She found it cold and harsh and very hurtful. Sherlock, Molly, as we know, loves you. Being forced to say those words to you was difficult for her. She said she never wanted to say them unless she knew you felt the same way. She feels humiliated.”

              Sherlock steepled his fingers and held them under his chin. He refused to look at Mycroft, for fear that his older brother would see the tears glistening in his eyes. He used every ounce of concentration that he had to force them back. He didn’t want to hear any more, but he also knew that he needed to hear it all.

              “I am not qualified in any way to give you advice when it comes to matters of the heart, brother mine. However, I can share my observations with you. Molly is hurt and embarrassed. As she sees it, everyone that she is close to knows her secret and knows her shame. She needs time to heal, and she will probably need space.

              “You love her. You’ve tried to deny it for too long because this is unfamiliar territory for you. You have spent a life-time building defenses around your heart. I know that I am, in a big way, responsible for that.

              “So, now, brother dear, is the time for you to decide what you want to do. There are two paths before you, neither of them is an easy one to trod.”

              Sherlock remained unmoved. Mycroft stood up with a sad smile on his face as he left his little brother in front of the fire. As he approached the door, Sherlock finally spoke.

              “Thank you, Mycroft,” he said quietly. Mycroft paused to look back at Sherlock who still looked to the fire then he turned and continued on his way.

 

              _Is there a romantic way to say, “Glad my sister didn’t blow you up?” SH_

_What? What are you doing, Sherlock? JW_

_I was going to send flowers. Wanted to say something “nice” on the card. SH_

_“Sorry for being an absolute tit?” JW_

_“Sorry I have no filter between my brain and my mouth?” JW_

_I’m being serious JOHN! SH_

_So am I. JW_

_……_

_Okay, okay. How about “Glad that you are safe. Thinking about you.” JW_

_Should I say anything about the phone call? SH_

_Let’s take this one step at a time. JW_

_Thank you, John. SH_

_Hope you got the flowers. Hadn’t heard from you so I thought I’d check. Hope you are having a good day. SH_

_Watching fireworks and wondering if you are too. SH_

 

              For three weeks John helped Sherlock compose text messages to Molly in the hopes that she might eventually respond. She didn’t. Though Sherlock frequented the lab at Bart’s, Molly avoided it. He tried to arrange “chance” meetings in the corridors and the mortuary, but somehow she seemed to always be one step ahead of him because she always managed to circumvent him.

              The next week, Sherlock sent Molly a ticket to the Harry Potter play running on the West End. He bought two, the one he sent to her, and the seat next to it for himself. He knew that she was a Harry Potter fan, and these tickets were very desirable and hard-to-get. The night of the performance Sherlock showed up and sat, lonely, in the audience. Half-way through the first act Molly was still a no-show, and Sherlock got up and left the theatre.

              He may not have realized it for what it was, but Sherlock was heartbroken. For the first time in his life he cared for someone in a meaningful and romantic way, but she seemed unattainable to him. He chastised himself for all of the squandered opportunities with Molly.

              Soon he quit calling and texting John for advice and withdrew himself to his room at Mycroft’s estate. The Baker Street flat was still being cleaned up and renovated and was uninhabitable. He would have preferred the absolute solitude of his own home. As it were, Mycroft kept a close eye on him and threatened to have the doors taken off every room, including the loos, if he didn’t check in regularly with his older brother. He knew that surveillance cameras were in every room except the loos and that Mycroft just used the threat to drive home a point. The point was taken; don’t give in to your demons on my watch. Sherlock would have been followed if he had left Mycroft’s home, so until he could return to Baker Street, he took to his bed and refused to see anyone.

              Sherlock’s demons were never far away.

 


	3. My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly refuses to talk to Sherlock and he has become heartbroken and withdrawn. We all know what that means....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a revision of a story that I published earlier in this series. I liked how it fit better within the narrative of Three Little Words and sets up Molly to reveal a big secret.

Three Little Words

Chapter 3: My Heart

              John Watson paced around his flat, his mobile phone pressed against his ear. It went to voicemail. Again. He sent another text: _I really wish you would answer your phone. JW_ As he slipped his phone back into his pocket there was a knock on the door. A friendly smile lit upon his face as he found Molly Hooper on his front stoop, clearly concerned.

              “I came as quickly as I could,” she said, her lilting voice sang out to him. “Is Rosie okay?”

              “Yes, yes, everything is fine,” John answered, but the look upon his face said otherwise. “She’s fine. Sleeping right now.” Now his tone became more serious. “Look, I’m sorry that I phoned you, it’s just that I didn’t know who else—I mean, it’s just that--”

              “Sherlock?” she asked.

              “I didn’t want to contact Mycroft just yet. It could be nothing,” John explained, his head drooped and his voice slightly quivering. “I haven’t heard from him in over a week, which in and of itself wouldn’t concern me so much, but I’ve been texting and phoning him since they gave the go ahead for him to return to Baker Street. I thought he might have responded by now. I just don’t understand his total silence.”

              “Yes, you’re right, Molly said. “Mrs. Hudson?”

              “On holiday. Visiting her sister. He’s been idle too long. Withdrawn. Lonely.  Molly, I wouldn’t have asked you except--”

              “Yes, I know. He may need me.”

              John cleared his throat and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “I’ve written down a few places, um, where he may be if he’s not in his flat. Also, should you find him, you should also look for a list.”

              “A list?” Molly asked, a confused look on her face.

              “Yes. A list of whatever he--” John’s head drooped again.

              “Yes, I see,” Molly said, glancing away so that John wouldn’t see her eyes well up with tears. She quickly brushed them away and took a deep breath. “Well, I should hurry then.”

As she reached for the piece of paper John took her in an embrace. Choking back a sob he said, “Thank you, Molly.”

 

              At 221B Baker Street, Molly unlocked the door and entered. The building was dim inside and silent. Half-way up a stair squeaked under her feet. She paused to listen. Nothing. Just outside the door to Sherlock’s rooms she paused again and put her ear to the door. Nothing. She nervously unlocked it, took a deep breath to brace herself, and pushed the door open. The morning sunlight filtered into the sitting room through lace curtains. The air was stale inside and smelled of new wood, paint, and faintly of vinegar. Molly closed her eyes in an attempt to force back the tears. She opened them and quickly glanced around. Papers were pinned all over the otherwise bare walls and around the fireplace. Stacks of them littered the floor by the windows and more were strewn about the flat. She took a few steps in and then she saw him. His long, lanky figure was curled up on a blanket between the sitting room and the kitchen, an empty syringe lay by his fingertips beside him. Molly quickly sprang into action.

              She grabbed her mobile phone from her pocket as she threw off her jacket and dropped to the floor by Sherlock’s side. She reached for his neck with one hand to find his pulse and gently slapped his face with the other.

              “Sherlock! Sherlock! Oh, shit! Sherlock, don’t do this to me!” she called out, the tears now streaming down her face. She pushed up her sleeves and quickly, dialed her phone and put it on speaker so she could start compressions. “Come one, Sherlock! Come on!”

 

_Sherlock looked around him. He was in a place that was very white and very bright. He was alone. The silence rang in his ears. He looked down to see that he was in his rumpled pajamas and dressing gown. He turned around and around slowly, looking for something, anything, but all he could see was white. Suddenly he heard her voice._

_“Sherlock!”_

_They were in her bedroom. It was that night, the night before his death. Then her mouth was on his mouth, forcefully. He was powerless against her touch, but then again, he didn’t want to fight it. She pulled away. No, he tried to say. Don’t stop._

_Then he felt the rhythmic movement of her on his body. Yes, yes, yes, he thought. She stopped and pressed her lips to his again. Molly, Molly. She moved again and his mind began counting the rhythm. 1, 2, 3, 4…..28, 29, 30. Her mouth pressed against his. Her lips, her lips._

              “Oh, god, Sherlock,” Molly muttered as she worked. A voice was coming from her phone now.

              “Yes?” it said calmly and deliberately.

              “I didn’t know whom to call,” she said frantically, as she straddled Sherlock’s torso.

              “Is this Molly Hooper? It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? Are you in his flat? Did you find a list?”

              “No, no! There was no time for that!” she yelled. “Please, Sherlock, please!” The tears were falling hard and fast now onto his hollowed cheeks. “He needs help,” she said to the man on the phone, “More than I can give him here. I wasn’t sure that I should call an ambulance, so--”

              “You did the right thing. Help is on the way.” He paused. “How bad?”

              “We may lose him, Mycroft,” she sobbed.

 

_She was sobbing now. Did he do something wrong? He often did without meaning to do so. A harsh word meant only as a truth. He would be the first to admit that he often did not understand human emotion. No, it was not that he didn’t understand, he just thought it impractical so he often ignored it to the point that he didn’t even think about it much anymore. But, now she was crying and he was troubled. He must have done something wrong again. Even as she pressed her lips to his he could taste her salty tears. He longed to reach up and press her to him, to make this one last longer than the others, but he felt paralyzed and lost, only her body anchoring him to this world. Then suddenly she was ripped away from him._

_“No, no!” she screamed. “Sherlock!”_

_NO! Where was she? Why had she gone away? He couldn’t speak._

              Molly heard footsteps thundering up the stairs. She continued working, continued crying, continued screaming. “Please, Sherlock, please!!!”

              “Excuse me, miss,” a man said to her, but she refused to move, refused to stop. “Miss, you need to move,” he said again as he grabbed her under her arms and pulled her away.

              “No, no!” she screamed. “Sherlock!”

              “Molly!” yelled the voice from the phone firmly. “Look for the list. They will need it to help him.”

              Molly slumped against the man who had pulled her off of Sherlock as several more people crowded around them carrying medical kits and equipment. Two more were barging into the flat now with a gurney.

             “I need my phone!” she told the man who was still holding her.

              “Molly! The list!” Mycroft said again.

              “Yes, yes,” she mumbled as someone pressed her mobile into her hand.

              Dazed, Molly glanced around as feet trampled the floor around Sherlock. She carefully inspected the scene around him. He was in crumpled pajama pants and a t-shirt torn open by her own hands and his dressing gown splayed out behind him on the floor. A small, black rectangular case lay open on the kitchen floor amid cigarette butts. It was empty now, but there was a small empty baggie beside it, a fine white powder residue left inside the baggie. A cigarette lighter had been dropped beside it next to a blackened spoon.

              Molly gently pulled away from the man who still held her by the arms. “I’m okay,” she managed to choke out between sobs. She gingerly walked around Sherlock’s long frame and began to have a better look around. She searched around the black case and the rest of the kitchen. Nothing. Nothing on the countertops. She took a quick look in his bedroom. It was freshly painted but still empty.

              She stuck her head in his bathroom. There was some vomit spattered on the floor near the toilet and in the bottom of the sink; there was urine in the toilet and splashed on the wall behind it. She closed the door.

              Back in the front room she looked at the papers on the tops of the stacks. Then she heard a dinging sound from across the room. A text alert, but not her mobile. Of course.

              “Molly?” Mycroft’s voice said above the commotion in the room.

              “Just a moment,” she replied. “I think I may know where it is.” She squeezed between two of the hunched figures surrounding Sherlock on the floor. “Excuse me, please,” she told them. “I just need to check his pocket.” In his dressing gown she found his mobile.

              Sherlock, come round for dinner tomorrow night? JW

              Do you have any promising leads for a new case? JW

              Are you working? JW

              Just ring me if you need help. With a case or otherwise. JW

              Could you just call or text me to let me know you’re okay? JW

              Molly??

 

              Molly closed the text messages and searched Sherlock’s phone.

              “I’ve got it, Mycroft.”

 

_Molly. Molly._

_Sherlock’s heart ached. Molly’s voice faded as a cacophony of other voices and sounds surrounded him in the white space. He couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying; he was searching for her voice._

_“…the list,” he heard Mycroft’s voice say above the din._

_The list. Of course. Always the list._

_Molly, where are you? My heart, my heart, oh my heart._

_Pain. He slumped on the ground._

_“Sherlock!” Her voice._

_Pain. He tried to move._

_“Oh, god, Sherlock!” Her voice._

_Pain. He began to stand up._

_Crying. Screaming. Her voice._

_My heart, my heart, oh my heart._

              Across town John Watson held his daughter in his arms as she cried, “It’s all right,” he said, trying to comfort her. “Everything will be all right.”

 

              Molly sat slumped with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, a damp tissue clutched in them. How long had she been here waiting? Honestly, she didn’t even know where she was. She had been whisked away in a black car when they wheeled Sherlock out and put him in the back of a van. Two men in black suits escorted her down a stark white corridor and left her here in an uncomfortable chair opposite double-doors that required a key card to access. Somewhere beyond, she thought, must be Sherlock.

              Her pocket buzzed.

              What’s going on? Is he okay? Do I need to come? JW

              She slipped the phone back into her pocket. It buzzed again.

              Molly?

              The screen blurred through her tears. She turned the phone off and put it in her jacket pocket. Her body heaved with the sobs that racked her body now. The tears wouldn’t stop now. She put her face in her hands and cried.

 

_Sherlock paced slowly in the white space. He had to make sense of this. He had to think._

_Molly._

_No, he had to concentrate._

_Molly._

_Concentrate._

_There were still so many voices. They were muffled. He didn’t want to listen to them. What could he remember? The flat. Bored. A delivery. How many days? Watson texted him on Thursday. Come for dinner tomorrow, Friday. Two, three—what day was it now? Mrs. Hudson was to be back from holiday tomorrow, Monday. Four . Mycroft’s list._

_Molly._

_My heart._

_There was beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Why all the bloody beeping!_

_For the first time since Molly’s mouth pressed against his, Sherlock could breathe. He could feel the weight of his body again, slowly getting heavier. He began to feel his veins ache. What was this pain? His stomach was hollow and empty. His hands and feet were cold, but his body sweated. Suddenly all of the voices and sounds came at once:_

_“Heartbeat and blood pressure stabilizing.”_

_“Move that cart out of the way.”_

_“Is he ready to be moved?”_

_“Let’s move him down the hall.”_

_“Ring his brother.”_

_“Should I speak to the young lady?”_

_MOLLY._

              Molly’s body was stiff, but she didn’t move. She kept her hands pressed against her eyes in a feeble attempt to hold in the tears. Suddenly the silence around her was broken.

              Tap, click, click. Tap, click, click. Tap, click, click.

              Without looking up she knew who it was.

              “Molly,” Mycroft said quietly as he stopped between Molly and the double doors.

              Molly slowly lifted her head, taking in the man in front of her. His black oxfords were highly polished to a glossy shine. The cuffs of his tailored charcoal grey suit pants were sharply pressed. A vest was buttoned over a crisp white cotton shirt under his suit jacket. Cufflinks of gold and pearl secured his shirt cuffs. A black umbrella with a bamboo handle rested on the crook of his arm. A dark red silk tie was knotted in a double-Windsor at his neck, pinned down with a tack that matched his cufflinks. His dark hair was trimmed short and combed very neatly. His mouth was set in a sad line across his face. His eyes looked tired, and though he would never admit it, they were very recently filled with worry and tears.

              Molly stood slowly on her feet.

              “Molly,” he said again.

              She searched his face for a clue. As their eyes locked, Mycroft allowed a hint of a smile to cross his lips. Without meaning to, Molly collapsed against his body, crying freely onto his merino wool clad shoulder. Startled, Mycroft awkwardly patted her on the back, a gesture of someone who was not used to physical contact, but was aware that it was socially expected in this sort of moment.

              "I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, pulling away from him. “I’ve just been so—It’s only that—He—he--”

              “Yes, well, I understand,” Mycroft interjected. “I want to express my gratitude for your diligence in assisting my brother, as well as your discretion with this matter. With your help, they were able to—that is to say he is now in a more stable condition than he was when you found him.”

              “May I see him?” she asked, glancing at the doors behind him.

              “Molly, he is still not conscious.”

              “I don’t care. I just need to see him.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Why won’t that bloody beeping stop, he wondered. Ah, yes. That was a desired sound. Most desired. My heart, my heart._

_From a distance, the voices were muffled now. Relative quiet surrounded him now, save the beep, beep, beeping that assured him that, although there was an ache in his chest, his heart was indeed still beating. His eyes were so heavy though. He just could not open them. His whole body felt made of lead, even a twitch felt exhaustingly impossible. Then he heard the sound. A door clicking shut softly. Footsteps barely perceptible crossing the floor. A soft sob caught in the throat._

_A warm, damp hand took his. Why has she been crying? Someone has hurt her. Gentle lips pressed against his fingertips. She pressed his palm against her wet cheek._

_Molly? What’s wrong Molly? My heart. My heart._

_The words form in his head, but his mouth will not move, cannot move._

              Molly stood over Sherlock’s bed, his palm press to her cheek with her own hand. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I don’t know if you can hear me, and I know that you don’t feel the same way. I mean, I’m not sure you really feel anything at all sometimes. But, I thought I was going to lose you today, and it broke my heart in a way that I could have never imagined….”

 

_My heart, my heart._

              “…and I just realized more than ever before that I love you and even if you will not or cannot ever love me, I had to say it and I have to have you in my life, however you will let me. And there is something else that you should know. Something that John told me to tell you and I should have told you a long time ago…”

 

_Sherlock concentrated. There are 17,000 touch receptors in the hand for the sensation of pressure and movement, making the fingertips especially sensitive to touch. The median nerve responds to stimuli to the palm, thumb, fore finger, middle finger, and the flesh between the middle and ring fingers. The ulnar nerve is responsible for the movement of these. The right hand, which was currently pressed against Molly’s cheek, was controlled by the left side of the brain. The muscles in the forearm create movement in the hand. The extensor tendons of these muscles run through the palms to the fingers. Now, to make all of these things work._

 

              The tips of Sherlock’s fingers gently flexed against Molly’s cheek, stopping her in mid-sentence.

              “Sherlock?” she gasped. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” His fingers moved against her face again. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”

              She carefully lay his hand down on the bed and bent over close to his face. She brushed his dark curls from his forehead and very tenderly kissed him there. Tears, tears of relief, rolled down her face and softly fell against his cheeks as her forehead touched his.

              “Please don’t ever do this again,” she whispered quietly. “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t. I just can’t—I just can’t.”

              Molly sat with Sherlock for 20 more minutes. He didn’t wake or move anymore, but she was okay with that. A nurse came in and kindly asked her to leave him to rest. Through the double-doors Molly was surprised to see Mycroft occupying her chair.

              “Oh, you’re still here,” she said to him.

              “Yes, well, I thought you might need a ride somewhere,” he said.

              “I was just going to sit here and wait.”

              “Molly, go home and rest. It does him no good for you to sit here in this god-awful chair losing sleep. He’s still unconscious, I assume?”

              “Yes, he is.”

              “Go home. Ring John. I will make sure someone contacts you if there is a change.”

              “But how would I get back here, wherever this is?” she asked.

              “I’ll send a driver to your flat. Come now. I’ll walk you down.”

              The pair of them walked in silence to the lift around the corner.

              “How is William?” Mycroft asked, breaking the silence.

              “He’s very good, thank you. Brilliant child, of course.”

              “Of course.”

              There was silence between them for a moment.

              “Mycroft, this is all my fault,” Molly said.

              “Your fault?”

              “I pushed him away after what happened with your sister. I was hurt. I didn’t want to see him and drudge up all those feelings again. I didn’t want to be hurt again.” She took a deep breath. “I was thinking that perhaps it’s time I told Sherlock about William.” She chanced a sideways glance to try to read Mycroft’s reaction.

              “Hmmm. Do you think that is really such a good idea, Molly? After all that we have been through today? After all that he put you through? He is an addict, Molly.”

              “But that’s why I want to tell him. What if knowing that he had a son who needed him was the type of reason that he needed to stay clean? Or what if I don’t tell him and he doesn’t get clean and the next time this happens he doesn’t make it and William never gets to know his father?”

              “Molly, obviously, this is entirely your decision, however, I would have to advise against it. The demons are still chasing my dear brother. They are not the drugs, they are what drives him to the drugs. You would be best advised to keep you and your son as far away from those demons as possible.” They were standing now by a black car. Mycroft opened the back door for Molly and she got into the backseat.

              “I don’t understand. Is Eurus still a threat to us?”

              Mycroft simply smiled a sad smile and said, “Thank you for your help today, Miss Hooper.” He closed the door and the car pulled away as Molly turned and stared back out the window at Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
